


Push and Pull

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cuties, Episode: s01e24, Faked Overdose, Gen, Hospitals, Pre-Slash, but i love these two regardless so eh, imma be honest it's more friendship than a ship ship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 09:32:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6233446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tile floor was cold, but Sherlock couldn’t feel it. He could feel the hands on him, however; they were warm.</p><p>Funny, how the body clings to warmth as it dies.</p><p>~</p><p>Or: A closer look at Sherlock's faked overdose in season 1</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push and Pull

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluesyturtle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesyturtle/gifts).



It was curious, Sherlock thought, as the room grew dimmer behind his eyelids. Marcus Bell’s left hand was planted, open-palmed, on his sternum, another hand wrapped around the back of his neck. The detective seemed to have neglected all past training and medical knowledge in favour of blind panic. It suggested a closeness regarding their relationship that Sherlock had not been certain they shared. It was quite flattering.

“Holmes? Hey. Holmes, stay with me.” The hand on his chest shook him frantically. Marcus’ voice was unsteady. “Mm? Stay with me? Holmes? Holmes!”

The tile floor was cold, but Sherlock couldn’t feel it. He could feel the hands on him, however; they were warm.

Funny, how the body clings to warmth as it dies.

He wasn’t sure whether or not he was dying, but his mind flitted from deduction to deduction; pale skin, extensive bleeding, torn muscles in his shoulder, shaking hands, reduced clarity- but he couldn’t give up yet. There was still Irene. Moriarty. Whatever her name really was. Whoever she was behind her masks. They had to catch her. They had to. Him and Watson.

He wondered how long it would last, with his infinitely wonderful Joan Watson. There was so much he was yet to learn about her; his companion, his friend, his partner. He hoped she would stay, after this. The tedium of life without her was a horrifying prospect.

“Holmes!” He was jerked back to life, head lolling, as he was shook again. “Holmes!”

Fingers pressed into his neck, taking his pulse.

“He still alive?” Another voice. The other detective.

“Yeah- he’s weak, though. I dunno if…” Marcus cleared his throat. “Where’s the ambulance at?”

“Few minutes.”

“Go wait outside. Make sure they get in here, okay?”

There was a scuff of shoes, the sound of a descent downstairs, and then silence fell loudly upon them both. Sherlock would’ve hated to call it silence, however; he could hear so much. Like a whirlwind of noise. But loudest of all was Marcus’ forcibly deep breaths, slower now. He was calming himself.

The pressure around Sherlock’s left arm decreased suddenly, as Marcus pulled the plastic wrap off it. A metallic sound hit the air sharply as the needle was picked up off the floor and analysed.

“The hell did you use…?” Marcus’ voice was pitched low. “Christ, Holmes.” The needle, the symbol of Sherlock’s downfall and his every mistake, was discarded. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt- a feeling he had only recently become accustomed to, with regards to this particular relationship- when he realised why Marcus was so panicked.

The detective’s own mother had died of a heroin overdose when he was aged twenty-three.

“Holmes?” Marcus’ voice was tentative now. As if he didn’t expect an answer. “Wake up.”

The plan, which had previously seemed so perfect, suddenly felt sickening. The guilt within him grew unbearable, and Sherlock attempted to sit up. Perhaps he could inform Marcus of the plan. Surely, the man would understand. He was intelligent enough. And the other policeman, whose intelligence and loyalty were unaccounted for, was absent.

He only succeeded, however, in opening his eyes. The ceiling was blurry, and Marcus’ face swam into view.

“Holmes! Holmes, look at me,” Marcus held his face with both hands. Sherlock tried desperately to focus. His mouth hung open uselessly, words failing him. He was so tired. “Holmes- no, no, look at me, look at me, shit-”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He hoped Marcus would forgive him for this.

“Holmes! Holmes, open your goddamn eyes!”

 

 

He wasn’t entirely certain how much time passed. He was afloat in the state of semi-consciousness. He had always had a high pain threshold, but this was something else. It felt as if he was high again. As if he really had slid a mix of chemical below his skin and into his veins; he was disconnected, above it all, even as his body screamed in agony at its various injuries. It was all happening to someone else. He was sleeping, somewhere else, in another mind.

“Holmes!”

Back in the present, a near constant, relentlessly loud noise continued to drift to him, even as he resided in this untouchable place. Marcus Bell. Calling for him.

“Holmes! Holmes, wake up! _Wake up!”_

He’d always imagined Watson would be the one to have been put in such a position, regardless of what injuries or ailments he had suffered. It was simply more probable, given the amount of time she spent with him. He would never forgive himself if she found him with his pupils blown and a needle in his arm.

_“Sherlock!”_

Distantly, he realised this was the first time Marcus had ever addressed him by his first name.

“Sir, we’ll have to ask you to leave the room.”

“Oh- shit,” Marcus took a breath, then his hands were gone, replaced by strangers’ hands and a light shining into his eyes; Sherlock missed his warmth.

Then everything slid sidewards into darkness.

 

 

***

 

 

She was led away by policemen. Her gaze burned into him, and he closed his eyes. He could still feel her, even as she walked away slowly, surrounded by executioners, confined to metal handcuffs. As if they would ever hold her.

As the distance between them grew, a curious thing happened. A pain, in his abdomen. Creeping up into his throat. Tightening his face, burning his eyes, quickening his breath. He was crying. He was breaking. The bond between them was iron, untouchable. He knew he would never be free of it.

And he hated it.

“Sherlock.”

He opened his eyes and saw Watson. Saw Marcus behind her.

When he closed his eyes again, it didn’t seem so bad.

 

 

The next time he was awake, Sherlock looked out the window. The movement was slow, his neck aching as much as every other part of him ached. Tired. Overused. His body needed rest; it needed to recover, as much as he hated to remain still.

He was still in the same room, but his senses were returned to him this time, and it came alive to him in smell and touch. He could smell standard hospital grade antiseptic; chemicals, cleanliness, rigidness. His sheets were starched. When he flexed his fingers, they scraped softly against the fabric. His movements were dulled, slowed. Drugs in his system. Pale imitations of the substances that had ruined his life.

A day had passed. Or two. He doubted the latter.

Before he had time to dwell on Irene or on Moriarty- some part of him still believed the two were not one and the same- the door to his hospital room opened.

“Ah, Marcus.” Sherlock had expected Watson. His voice sounded weary, even to his own ears.

“Holmes.”

His last name. As if that wasn’t indicative of anger enough, Marcus’ voice was flat and forced. He was wearing his dark brown suit and deep red shirt; colours of passion, colours of rage.

Sherlock closed his eyes and waited. Marcus had unspoken words enough to fill a book.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t slap some goddamn sense into you.”

“I can think of many reasons.” To Sherlock’s utter humiliation, his voice was slurred. “You’re angry.”

“Damn fuckin’ right I’m angry!”

Sherlock winced. He couldn’t help it. “It was Watson’s idea, if that’s any defence.”

“It ain’t. Christ, Holmes, I-” There was a shuffling of fabric; short, sharp movements, as Marcus crossed and uncrossed his arms, letting out a loud huff of heated breath. “I thought you were dyin’!”

Sherlock attempted to nod, which sent his world spinning slowly on a bending axis. He frowned, trying to will himself into stillness again. His head hurt; as it moved, out of control, it tried to analyse itself, tried to dissect the situation, tried to understand the pain. The more it tried to understand, the more his skull pounded.

“Holmes?”

He held onto the blankets. Inhaled.

Urgent footsteps advanced towards him. Concerned footsteps. “Sherlock?”

Marcus was wearing cologne. It was faint, but present. Sherlock breathed it in.

When he opened his eyes again, slower this time, Marcus was above him, frowning. The bed was warm under him. Softer than the tiles of before.

“How long you gonna be in here?”

“A day. At most.” Sherlock focussed somewhere around the left side of Marcus’ jaw. It was smooth. Shaved. He had noticed that Marcus tended to pay particular attention to grooming and self-expression when he was emotionally unstable. It pulled him into a more controlled state of mind- or, at the very least, afforded him an exterior that was more controlled than he felt.

“You’ve lost a lotta blood, Holmes. And you look like hell, honestly speakin’.” Marcus sounded cautiously concerned. Attempting to regain some emotional distance from the faked overdose on Shelock’s bathroom floor. “Maybe you should stay a bit longer…?”

“I have a resident doctor to help with that.”

Marcus laughed quietly, and Sherlock smiled in reply without stopping to wonder why. Then, his smile faded.

“I’m sorry, detective.”

Marcus rubbed his face with both palms. “…Yeah. Whatever. You did what you had to. We caught Moriarty, didn’t we?”

“Your mother died of an overdose.”

Marcus’ went still for a while. When his hands fell, his eyes were guarded. This was a pain he’d hidden deep inside himself- for years, if Sherlock’s instincts were correct. He met Sherlock’s stare with unreadable eyes, and- for a moment- Sherlock couldn’t tell what emotions sat between them.

“I regretted… I regretted that you would have to be the unknowing party to partake in Watson’s plan, but I’m afraid… I’m afraid that was how it happened.” Marcus’ expression was unchanged, and Sherlock swallowed thickly. “If I reminded you of her death, I am sincerely sorry.”

Marcus didn’t move. Sherlock, ordinarily, would have calculated the possibility of actions to come; storming out of the room in silent rage, slapping the aforementioned sense into him, becoming embarrassed- but all Sherlock could do was stare into Marcus’ deep brown eyes and hope for the best. It was unprecedented, this affection he had for the detective. He had never intended it to be this way.

He felt a dizzying pulse of relief when Marcus nodded curtly.

“You should,” Marcus looked at his feet. Cleared his throat. “You should get some rest.” He looked back up again. “See you back at the precinct?”

“Of course.”

“Not… Not too soon, though, yeah?”

Sherlock tried to quash the thrill of enjoyment and happiness at seeing the concern in Marcus’ eyes, but he couldn’t quite keep the smile from his lips. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Marcus answered with a smile of his own, before turning away.

Sherlock, absurdly, felt happy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (was written before canon revealed that Marcus' mother is still alive....)


End file.
